Mardock Scramble

The green felt in front of her had printed on it the numbers 0, 00, and 1 to 36 in alternating black and red squares, in addition to a number of squares to denote the outside bets.

To one side of the wheel was an electronic scoreboard showing all the numbers that had come up during the last twenty minutes. A form guide. One of the enjoyments in roulette was to try and work out any biases that emerged either in the wheel or due to the way the croupier threw in the ball.

Balot looked at the scoreboard. The last five spins were 14 red, 0 red, 17 black, 30 red, and 23 red. Having glanced at it, she placed a chip on the layout in the space for 2 black. She then threw another one into the mix, which she placed on 14 red.

The old lady, the croupier, took a look at Balot’s chips.

She hadn’t expected Balot to dive straight in and bet on single numbers, it seemed, and she waited a moment before carefully placing her hand on the roulette wheel.

“Starting,” the old lady called in a low, steady voice.

She gripped the handle of the wheel with her left hand and spun it around with a deft movement. It hardly looked like she had put any effort into it at all. At the very same time she threw the ball smoothly in with her right hand. The wheel spun to the right, and the ball spun around within the bowl, traveling in the opposite direction. The numbers flew past in a dizzy whirl, and the ball seemed to slide gracefully against them, the two opposing movements creating a beautiful spiral effect.

Balot thought she might put another chip somewhere on the layout but suddenly stopped herself, transfixed by the rotations.

“No more bets,” the old lady called out, preventing any additional bets on this spin.

Chip gripped tightly in her hand, Balot followed the ball with her eyes.

The ball and the wheel seemed to be drawing closer together. Or so she thought, but then the ball ricocheted off one of the eight metal pins that were placed inside the wheel, sending the ball off in a seemingly random direction. It continued on into the wheel just as its rotations were slowing down, and the ball slipped into one of the pockets with apparent ease.

The spinning wheel slowed down again. The numbers were much clearer now, and it was possible to see exactly where the ball had landed.

“Two black,” called the old lady. Then the hand that had just smoothly spun the ball was on the table, placing a weighted crystal on the layout over the number that had just won.

Balot was surprised to see the speed with which the other dealers moved to prepare and distribute her winnings.

It was as Oeufcoque had said—she won the first round. They made sure of that.

The croupier had seen the number and placed the ball there with astonishing accuracy. Balot had heard stories of such skill but never believed them until just now, having seen it with her own eyes. An incredible display of ability.

Or it could just have been coincidence. The electronic scoreboard suggested that this was indeed a possibility. It wasn’t as if the numbers of the roulette wheel were neatly lined up from 1 to 36. Rather, they were arranged in a seemingly random pattern: 14, 2, 0, 28, 9, 26, 30. Looking at the results of the last five spins, it was possible to detect something of a pattern emerging.

Whether it was due to a biased wheel or some habit of the croupier was hard to tell, but considering that the odds were thirty-six to one normally, it didn’t seem beyond the bounds of possibility that she had won legitimately.

Or was it all calculated, part of an act to draw the punter in ever more deeply? Judging by the features of the croupier in charge, it was hard to discount this possibility. She looked every inch the master of her craft.

“Congratulations, madam.” One of the other dealers pushed a mountain of chips toward her. Thirty-five times her original stake. Flustered, Balot offered the chip that was her original stake to the dealer. Not to gamble with— as a tip.

–Gosh, what a surprise.

Balot said to Oeufcoque, furtively.

–It felt like someone set you up to win. Probably a trick to draw the crowds in.

Oeufcoque’s words backed up Balot’s existing suspicions.

Before she realized it, there were people gathering at the table. Thirty-five to one was the best payout there was in roulette—it was the rarest and therefore always interesting. Equally noteworthy were the figures displayed on the electronic scoreboard beside the roulette wheel. Anyone in the know would soon realize that the numbers revealed the distinct possibility of a biased wheel—and this could be exploited.

Would the ball continue to fall in the same area, or would the pattern be interrupted? This was the question, and one that countless keen eyes were now watching to see if they could have answered. It was what made gambling exciting.

One by one the chairs at the table filled up, and there were other people who placed their bets while remaining standing. Some placed their own bets on the layout, others called out to the dealers to have them place chips on their behalf. Before long the table was a kaleidoscope of colored chips. Roulette fever had taken hold.

–There are body odors everywhere—it’s all one big mess!

Oeufcoque wrote on her hand as normal, but she felt as if he were wailing in despair.

–Let’s head over to another table. We’ve got what we wanted, and the croupier has what she wanted.

–Wait.

Balot held him back.

–I want to play here again. Please?

Balot already had chips in her hand even as she snarced him.

–There’s no guarantee you’ll win again. The croupier had a strange, capricious smell about her.

–I want to watch the woman a little longer.

–You’re interested in the croupier?

She sensed that Oeufcoque was perplexed, but it didn’t stop her from placing another chip on the layout.

She went for a straight bet again, a single number: 14 red.

Balot thought she saw the old lady take in the bet with her eyes.

The more Balot looked at her, the more noble she seemed in appearance and stature. Not some act put on for the job or for the crowds. There was a certain something that seemed to radiate from her very core.

Balot was reminded of the manager at her old place of work—the one who gave Balot her name—and also of Queen Bee.

It wasn’t that Balot particularly respected these women, and neither looked much like the croupier. She just associated them with each other somehow. That led to another train of thought, and Balot recalled something that a female movie star had once said in a television interview.

The journalist who was interviewing the star had asked her a question: “Would you ever consider plastic surgery to remove your wrinkles, just like so many other stars seem to be doing these days?”

The actress just smiled and said, “I worked hard for these wrinkles.”

The words had made a great impression on Balot.

The actress in question had started out in porn before moving into regular acting work, eventually becoming a great star of screen and stage. Balot did of course, given their similar backgrounds, empathize with the actress and respected her too. But there was more than that. The actress exuded a certain mute confidence when she answered the question. If there’s anything in my life that’s worth being proud of, then these wrinkles are it, she seemed to say.

The lady that stood before Balot now seemed to exude the same aura of quiet certainty. Bell Wing. Balot said the name to herself once more. She felt lucky that she had been able to sit down at this table. Nothing to do with whether she was going to win or lose, but a different sort of luck. Just as she felt lucky that it was none other than